


Helsreach

by sanguineOcelot



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguineOcelot/pseuds/sanguineOcelot
Summary: A city besieged, burning, doomed. Who, then, stands against the tide of green savages?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, the battle of Helsreach, in the Third War for Armageddon. I love Grimaldus, but he's not a particularly engaging figure. Who says all Space Marines have to be so stuffy and grumpy? Certainly, the sons of Corax are a touch more fun.

The sun is rising. The sun is rising, and for the first time in my life, I truly appreciate it.

There are five minutes left before the first of the foul beasts make landfall here. Their crude landing craft, hollowed asteroids that the damnable xenos hide inside, are burning through the atmosphere elsewhere on the world. Other hive cities will bear their weight, but my place is here. Where the scorched wastes meet the blistering sea, this gem of industry stands ready to meet the enemy. I do not fear, for that is an emotion of lesser beings. I will die in the city of Helsreach, but I have accepted that fact. What else could be worth the life of a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes? What, besides the destruction of the loathed xenos, would be worth shedding the Primarch's blood in my veins? Perhaps a proper fight against Traitor Legionaires, but there is little honor in slaying those that have already ruined themselves.

I scan the vox-net again. The Imperial commanders are issuing orders still. I scan through the number of channels available to me - more than I am supposed to have access to, of course. I should not listen in on my fellow Astartes on their private channels, but I cannot resist. I am looking for something specific, something I was sent to find and destroy, but before I can find it, something catches my notice. The Black Templars are here in force, one hundred of our cousins clad in black. They are good soldiers. Loyal allies. A venerable Chapter that I am proud to fight beside. But that does not change the fact that, without reinforcements, we cannot prevail. It's simple numbers. If every man, woman, and child of this hive city were given a lasgun and told to kill until they were killed, it would make little difference. But I cannot judge them too harshly. They are only human. Human courage and dedication is the lifeblood of the Imperium....but a great deal of that blood will be shed here. It is enough that they fight. That they stand.

As the first of the Ork ships, the 'Roks', strikes the dirt far from the city walls, I cease my scanning and wonder how long it will take. My prey moves unseen for now, but it will be some time before I can strike them. My power fist, deactivated but ready, itches for use. The Mark III Shrike rifle in my grip, linked to my autosenses, almost cries out for action. It knows its role, and with a magazine filled with shrapnel-spraying Hyperfrag rounds, it will soon sound its battle-cry. I have trained day and night for any number of situations, but I confess that this is slightly beyond my past experience. Assassinations, precision strikes, ambushes that cripple a foe before they even realize they've been attacked, all these are the techniques that a successor of the Raven Guard excels at. All-out warfare like this is somewhat.....distasteful to me. But it makes no difference.

This is exactly where I belong. A high vantage point and a wealth of targets are all I truly require. The Guard regiment around me - a Penal Legion, prisoners, given guns and armor for the chance to earn their freedom - are awed by the crate of bolts at my side. They do not believe I intend to fire them all, and are joking about it. I let them. Before a battle, humor is helpful to humans. They do not recognize the First Marksman's Honor I bear, only the fourth warrior of my Chapter to earn it. On this world, before I die, I will earn the golden skull for the Primus Marksman's Honor, to signify a million foes slain at range. I will be the first of my brothers to reach that lofty height. My name will be relayed to Terra itself, and my achievement engraved upon the Marksman's Wall forevermore, bearing the mark of the Widowmakers below the sign of Primarch Corax himself. Such an honor - even a chance at such an honor - is well worth the inevitability of my death. 

The number bears consideration. One. Million. I am just under three thousand shy of this total. Two thousand, nine hundred and thirty-five more kills to make. Have I really slain nearly a million creatures? Have I ended nearly a million lives? I feel no remorse, nor should I. They were aliens. Traitors. Heretics. They stood against the Imperium, and it was not only my duty to end them - it was my pleasure. The Widowmakers may not be the oldest Chapter, nor the most venerated, but we do our job, and by the Emperor, I will kill until I am no longer able to. I will perform my duty, and cut down these contemptible beasts for as long as my hearts can still beat. Their piggish screams will be my dirge, their shattered bodies my plinth. And yet, they are not my greatest foe on this world. I have seen, through the Librarian's eyes, the foe I hunt, and it is no greenskin.

I hear the Reclusiarch speak - the leader of this group of Black Templars, Grimaldus, an inspiring and rousing figure whose voice rings out over the walls and the vox-channels. My heart soars at his inspiring words, and I silently thank the Emperor that my brothers and I are here for this. The most massive force of greenskins of all of human history, and we have the honor of facing it. Unbidden, laughter comes to my lips. I have been sitting still for six hours, and the noise startles the Guardsmen beside me. Soldiers of a Penal Legion, men and women of the Savlar Chem-Dogs, fighting not for their freedom or the Emperor, but for the loot to be had. They expect to survive this war. That only makes me laugh all the harder. It is not proper for an Astartes to laugh, for we are transhuman warriors, elevated beyond the physical and mental capacity of unaltered humans, but we still have humor.

"What's the joke, Brother-Sergeant?"

The voice on the vox is Brother Besk. He's using the Squad channel, which carries my response to all nine of my brothers in this city. The other ninety are gathered in other hives, strategic fortresses, putting their skills to good use as our Primarch taught our predecessors. We pale few are not enough, but we were never meant to be. It is not our job to win this war. It is to endure, to slay Orks.....and to carry out one secret mission, of which my brothers know nothing. But they wait for my words, and I can nearly feel their tension. I have long been known to enjoy a good joke, but they worry that my mind may finally have cracked, that centuries of service have taken too heavy a toll.

"The Reclusiarch has laid before us such a bounty, Brothers, I almost feel bad. The only gifts we brought were Bolt-rounds and artillery pieces. Perhaps we are being poor house-guests."

My squad share a chuckle, set at ease by my good humor. We are not like the Templars, stoic and grim. We sons of Corax have nothing to fear from a smile. Two nights ago, we shared a meal and prayers together. None of us said it, but we all knew we were likely meeting for the last time. We reminisced about our finest, proudest moments. We saluted our champions. We swore our oaths. Now, we have nothing left to regret, nothing to fear, nothing to hold us back. We are the Emperor's soldiers, elevated to fight His wars, and serve His Imperium. This is what we were made for, what our Primarch fathers were meant to do. Many of them have fallen or vanished in the ten thousand years since their birth, but we remain. We carry on their legacy.

Besk, stationed atop the highest spire of the Temple of the Emperor Ascendant, is our spotter, using the advanced auspex array and pict-capture to record the horde pouring forth around us. A fungal green carpet that blots out the wastes around the city, a horde of Orks beyond counting, so many so that even when we pour every shell we brought for our cannons into their ranks, it will amount to nothing significant. He marks targets for us, and I share these targeting designations with the Imperial Guard units who man the heavy guns far to the rear - and, of course, with High Command. I have no obligation to them, and they lack the authority to command me, but we all stand together this day. There is no need to flaunt our differences. They know better than to issue us orders anyways - but when they have useful intelligence to share, this will make it easier for them to do so, as I have shown I am willing to communicate.

Near at hand, a fellow Astartes warrior is patrolling the walls. A tall, proud figure of blue and gold, his shoulder marked with a snarling lion. A son of Dorn, then, a Celestial Lion. A fist crashes to his chestplate in salute, causing the Chem-Dogs to jump in surprise. I return the salute, a hiss of air issuing forth as I remove my helmet in respect. The Chem-Dogs gasp in further surprise, my paper-white skin and black eyes are a surprise to them. The Lion, surprisingly, removes his helm as well - black, the sign of a Captain of his Chapter - and his cheerful blue eyes very nearly glow. The dark chestnut complexion of his skin contrasts my own, and the ghost of a smile hovers at his lips. I recognize a kindred spirit here, though one bound by his station and traditions. Rather than attempt to joke with him, I decide that the path of formal camaraderie would be better.

"Hail, cousin, son of Dorn. May your hunt be fruitful and your valor beyond question."

"Hail, cousin, son of Corax. May your aim be true and your faith eternal."

No further words are shared. None are needed. We've each read the material provided on our allies, and our flawless memories would not be so quickly wiped. Atop that, I knew of him before I landed on this accursed world. I may not live to leave this place, but he must. We share a moment of silent contemplation before we replace our helms - mine of midnight blue and bone white, his of purest night. He resumes his walk, and I resume my preparations. This is the man I have come to save. Warleader Imbari. I have been told of his role yet to play, and of the forces arrayed against him. If my teeth had not been replaced decades ago with pegs of dense steel, they might shatter under the sudden clenching of my jaw. I know the shame they seek to bring. The ignoble end that the Lions face. It is my job - as it is that of the other nine of my brother-Sergeants - to unravel that doom.

I secure my firearm as the horde outside the walls screams, a wall of sound that rushes before them. I take a comfortable firing position, minimizing fatigue and discomfort while also steadying my aim. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, picking my target. One of the largest brutes, leading his lesser bretheren in the headlong charge against our walls. These are not the dangerous ones - these are the youngest and the most foolish, with a pale few veterans seeking greater acclaim. This one draws my eye, with the trophy dangling at his hip. A bright blue helmet, defiled with their crude glyphs, secured with a rusted chain. The sigil of the Ultramarines is still barely visible on its side. 

My round takes the beast through the throat, nearly tearing its head off. The creature behind it is struck in the stomach, and as the round explodes behind it - sending out a cloud of shrapnel and acid that claims another three of the disgusting, piggish beasts - the damned thing is trying desperately to push the ropy remains of its dangling, mangled intestines back into its stomach. Five kills already, and I have not heard any other shots fired yet. The beasts are still outside of firing range. Or at least, out of range for conventional hand-held firearms. I check the distance as it drops, and just before they enter optimal firing range, I speak up.

"Brother Besk, let the guns sound. Our addition to the Earthshaker emplacements will be rather welcome, I'm sure."

"Gladly, Brother-Sergeant."

The sound of thousands of artillery pieces firing brings a smile to my face. The Steel Legion maintains an impressive array of guns....but a precious few of them are ours, added in to the delight of the city's defenders. The vast majority of the shells land among the Orks, shredding scores of foes with every strike, but twenty-five of them - so few, when arrayed against this horde, but all we could manage - detonate high above the field, depositing upon their piggish heads a cloud of red smoke. Where it touches Ork flesh, it burns, and the nature of the gas ensures it reaches their eyes. Blinded and choking, the advance falters, for a few amusing seconds, before they are simply trampled by those behind them. Thousands dead, crushed under the feet of their own comrades, but it's little more than a drop in the bucket.

Hours pass, and eventually, they fall back from the city's walls. It will be some time before they can make it into the city itself, and I will make the most of this time. I will watch, and I will wait, and though Imbari doesn't know it, I will watch over him. I will fulfill my oath, and I will do all that I can. My goals are simple, my foes clearly defined. All that is truly left is to wait. My foes are kind enough to come to me, and though I am loathe to think of a fellow Astartes warrior in such terms.....Imbari makes rather ideal bait for the trap I've set.

Days survived: 1/?

Kill count for Primus Marksman: 117/2935

Imbari's hunters slain: 0/5

Widowmakers remaining: 10/10


	2. Day Twenty-Five

The enemy swarms the city. The purity of the hate I feel for them grows in me, every day, placated only by my ever-expanding kill count. But at least my goal is coming to fruition. I have seen the shadow moving in the background, and though I pretend not to notice it, the caution it shows is beyond admirable. I have seen two glimpses of it in the past twenty-five days, a black bodyglove and a glint of silver. I cannot shake the sensation that it has allowed me to see it, and that it mocks me. Imbari is none the wiser, but then again, he has more worries than this on his mind - especially since he does not know that he is being hunted. 

On the tenth day, the greenskins broke through the city walls. They gained small footholds in the outlying industrial districts that allowed them to advance further, but it wasn't until the eighteenth day that they took something that mattered. Hell's Highway, the great artery in the body of this dying city, a massive industrial highway that runs the entire length of it. The road is wide enough for Titans to walk two abreast, and they have been doing so to great effect. Legio Invigilata, the Titan Legion stationed here, has fought primarily against Ork armored divisions, but we know that soon the scrap-titan Gargants they are so fond of will rise and come to destroy us. This, however, is not my fight.

An Ork's head dissolves in my scope, as do the two skulls directly behind it - and when the round explodes, it takes another four of the clustered animals with it. Under other circumstances, I would be proud. But with Vale's body cooling beneath theirs, all I can feel is fury. A terse order has Nilum slip out of cover to salvage his gene-seed, the precious organ implanted in every one of us that allows us to transcend humanity. Nilum, our Apothecary, is able to drag Vale's body back behind the fortified barricade, and despite my focus on the Orks I'm killing, I can't help but hear what comes next. The sharp snapping sound of Nilum's wrist-mounted reductor as it bites through the heavy ceramite and adamantine plating of Vale's armor. The wet, crunching noise that follows is the sharp tips spearing past his fused-solid breastbone, a defensive structure inside every Astartes' body that protects the vital organs. There's a sucking sound, the tearing of fresh meat as the reductor withdraws, and a soft hiss as the safely-harvested progenoid gland is stored in a cryo-cell. 

Nilum carries the weight of Vale's legacy now, but I bear the weight of his death. A fine soldier, a touch of a braggart but never once inclined towards cowardice or disobedience. His arrogant antics were what had him assigned to my squad, intended as a punishment for my lax attitude, but he never once defied my orders or shirked his duties. It grieves me to know that I will never again suffer through his unending tales of valor and glory. The fires of war burn ever brighter, but the Imperium is a touch darker now for his loss. It is so painful that I almost miss the assassin's sudden, lurching attack.

Imbari stands shoulder-to-shoulder with a Black Templar. I know not his name, but he is wounded badly, and the Celestial Lion covers his withdrawal. A hulking brute of an Ork charges the warrior, and it takes every ounce of my perception to see the assassin slipping in behind it. Even knowing what to look for, even being on alert for this, I almost miss the attack. Form-fitting black synth-skin, tight enough to show every curve and joint of the assassin in perfect detail. Lithe and lean, she is a perfect killing machine, unable to feel pain or fear. Even as the Lion's blade is removing the Ork's head, she's already slipping beneath its bulk, aiming a strike up under his chin. She's the result of decades of training with the most terrifying of the Ordo Assassinorum, an Assassin Cult, with the sole purpose of taking lives by stealth, guile, and deceit.

Callidus.

There were days I would have hesitated. The Callidus Assassins serve the Imperium and the Inquisition, and it is at their behest that this woman - no, this assassin - is here. Surely there must be a reason. Surely, the most refined and elegant murderers of the Imperium would never seek the life of an Astartes without reason. But, that was who I once was - not who I am. The explosive bolt takes her in the chest, blowing her remains back several dozen meters. Her limp, flopping body catches the attention of the Orks, who tackle the unmoving assassin and begin ripping her guts out with their bare hands. 

In the past seven days, I have watched Imbari put his life in danger to save civilians. To assist beleaguered Guard regiments. To cover the fallback of a fellow Astartes. This is not a man whose death I can simply permit. If he should fall in such a way, to such a foe, his Chapter will be doomed. If the Inquisition is allowed to visit such ignoble ends on my cousins, where then might they stop? This is not permissible. If they have a quarrel with us, then it should be spoken aloud, discussed like honorable warriors, not lowered to petty vendettas and knives in the dark. 

I almost ignore my instincts, such is the righteous fury that fills me. But when the second attack comes, I am already moving to stop it - and Borel has spotted the danger as well. My brother leaps beside Imbari to defend him, heavy ceramite combat shield brought high to deflect the incoming round - only for it to punch straight through his buckler and his armor plating, even as my round leaps through the air. The second Callidus topples bonelessly from her rooftop and into the mass of Orks below, her body simply stopping at the shoulders. Though I would sorely like to have searched her skull for any data-storage devices, I feel she poses less of a threat to us without a skull intact. I send Nilum to recover Borel's body as well, but I can tell even before Nilum has checked him that there's nothing left.

I am keenly familiar with the potent, mutagenic acids in Hellfire Rounds, and I know already that they have left nothing to recover from Borel's body. No gene-seed, no progenoid to reclaim. I rage all the more intensely, knowing that three more Callidus assassins remain somewhere in this city, and that I have lost a fifth of my force in the span of ten minutes. Nilum drags him back to where Vale lies, their armor almost as valuable as their gene-seed, and we resume our vigil. Another pull of the trigger, another cluster of Orks slain, another minute of life purchased.

Over the vox arrays, another request for Astartes reinforcements comes through, answered a terse moment later by one of the Celestial Lions. The Black Templars no longer answer such calls, focused as they are on slaying xenos. In their view, leaving a firefight to save a civilian bunker is wasteful. It has never been the Templars' job to protect the innocent, only to purge the enemy. The Lions, however, have empathy, and will gladly risk their laves to stand between the defenseless and oblivion. This is likely how they attained the ire of the Inquisition in the first place. 

I suppose that's the fundamental difference between Astartes: our exact purpose. The Black Templars exist to carry on the Eternal Crusade, to venture forth into the reaches of space where the Xenos and the Traitor make their homes, and to put them to the torch. Others, like the Ultramarines and the Celestial Lions, exist to keep order, the defend those who cannot defend themselves. And some, like the Widowmakers, exist to walk in shadow, to live in the darkness of obscurity, to do what must be done. Beyond that, though, we are all bound by one inescapable fact.

We will die on this world. But I will not fall before my mission is completed.

Days survived: 25/?

Kill count for Primus Marksman: 2827/2935

Imbari's hunters slain: 2/5

Widowmakers remaining: 8/10


	3. Day Thirty-Six

The dock will fall soon. Orks have destroyed the offshore oil refineries, and approach our shores with a fleet of submersibles. Foul and disgusting as they are, their bestial cunning is not to be underestimated. My squad is falling, their numbers worn down by the unceasing press of war - and, possibly, by the remaining Callidus. Two of the five have fallen to me, and I will not allow myself to fall until they are stopped. But this situation at the docks...it vexes me. It is not my place. It is not where the Callidus will strike. To answer this threat would leave Imbari vulnerable. But could I truly turn my back on the Imperial workers still there? There is no time to evacuate them, to bring the Guard in to reinforce them. The call must be a cold one, an order given that will consign many noncombatants to death. They must take up arms and fight, every one of them, every terrified dockworker among them. I am about to voice this suggestion, when a strident voice cuts through the vox-net argument over it. 

"I believe the dockmaster wishes to speak."

Grimaldus falls silent, having somehow compelled every voice to comply with his own, and the dockmaster - Tomasz, I believe - speaks up. He volunteers himself, and his men, to fight and buy time. To sell their lives to ensure that the greenskins don't take the entire city. To do their duty, no matter the cost, and fight for their home. These humans, unalterted by the Astartes, frail and weak and slow, are afraid. They know they will die, screaming and bleeding and choking and filthy, but they do not care. This is their home, and the lives of those they love depend on them. There is no doubt. No hesitation. They will die today for Helsreach, and for the entire blasted, Emperor-forsaken world. Armored with faith and armed with hatred, they will feed themselves into the unceasing grinder to buy a single precious moment.

Their courage shames me.

I almost reach up to wipe away the Primus Marksman award upon my chest - drawn in sealing tar and white phosphorus residue - as the weight lifts from my shoulders. There is no longer a choice for me to make, as there is no choice at all. Imbari will be at the docks. Grimaldus will be at the docks. And my Squad - the five left under my command and myself - will be there to rain fire upon the enemies of Humanity. Orks and Callidus alike will taste the Emperor's own fury. I switch to my squad channel, giving them orders and issuing placements, before activating the Astartes Officer channel. I do not know if Grimaldus will hear my words - or if he will even care - but it must be said regardless. 

"The sons of Corax watch over you, Cousin."

To my surprise, there is a reply, the voice deeper than grinding tectonic plates, almost a snarl of barely-leashed fury.

"Your presence is welcome...Cousin."

The familiarity is odd to him. It feels strange to most Astartes, I've found. We are so accustomed to speaking of our brothers that we forget that our fathers, the Primarchs, were brothers themselves. Other sons of Corax are closer to me than the Black Templars, certainly. But that should not make us so distant towards one another. Perhaps Dorn and Corax were not as close as brothers should be, but they were heroes of the Imperium all the same. I think - privately, of course, as few others find this as amusing as I do - that they would frown in disapproval to see their sons act as such rambunctious children, quarreling and bickering as we do. I am so amused that I almost miss the Callidus streaking through the air, her gleaming silver weapon blurring through the air and through reality itself. A Phase Knife, capable of bypassing my armor entirely to rend my flesh with ease.

I drop to one knee, flinging an elbow back to strike at her jaw. She rolls with the blow, body unnaturally flexible, bones like rubber deforming around my arm as she seeks a killing blow regardless. I grab her forearm, servo-assisted grip shattering bones like twigs, but all she does is curve her other arm around, snakelike, to slash at my neck. I use her momentum, throwing her at a wall, only for her to rebound away from it like a coiled spring. Inhumanly fast and flexible, I realize too late that my arm won't come up in time to stop her. The only thing I have left is my jump pack...and the harpoon affixed to it, used for securing climbing lines. The spike of adamantium pierces her body squarely through where a lung should be, pinning her to a wall, but even before it's stopped, she is already squirming, trying to free herself, tearing chunks of flesh and synth-suit away as she reaches out for me.

Before my fingers close around the Bolt Pistol at my side, a beam of furious light, white-hot, too bright for a normal human to look directly at, lances her through the skull. Then another. A volley of shots from a single odd-looking trooper, dressed in mismatched and personalized equipment, but carrying a Hellgun - far more powerful than the simple lasgun it's based on - casually in his arms. After the tenth shot, she goes still. After the twentieth, she stops breathing. After the forty-second, he eases off the trigger, and his weapon ceases its raging discharge. The Hellgun's snaking power cable hisses, discharging heat all along its length, up to a backpack he wears, and he gives me a lopsided, cheerful grin. His accent is thick, and it takes a moment for me to understand his words. 

"Ugly bitch, to be sure! I will not ask, friend, but please to be telling the Commander that I assisted you, yes? Stormtrooper Andrej Valatok is a fine and fancy title, but just imagine Captain Andrej, no? Then, I am thinking we will be big fine heroes and wear many medals. I see you already have one! Apologies, but I must go earn my own now!"

He turns and strolls away, ochre jacket flapping weakly behind him, goggles resting around his neck with his rebreather, a cheerful whistle filling the air as he departs. I am...concerned, perhaps, but also bemused. I had heard the Steel Legion of Armageddon was odd in its mannerisms, and that those elevated to the ranks of Stormtrooper were even stranger. This, however, is far more than simple unorthodoxy. I cannot spare it any further thought, though, as a chime on my auspex detects an enemy. I was already drawing my sidearm, however, unconvinced of my foe's condition, and before she can free herself from the harpoon, I'm already blowing her ribcage apart in a shower of viscera. I take a moment to search her corpse for implants, but if there were any, they've already self-destructed. I drop the remnants of the skull and turn towards the docks. 

I climb atop the nearby scaffolding, making my way to the upper reaches of the building nearest me. From there, I employ my jump-pack, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with ease, stopping only occasionally to destroy an armored Ork vehicle or slay the leader of a warband. The beasts are rather considerate, painting themselves and carrying flags proclaiming their greatness, saving me any sort of guesswork. Six Ork leaders fall before I make my way to my designated perch, overlooking the docks. Through my scope, I see the shapes of submersibles, making their way towards the shore, and pan across the defenders - huh. I see the Storm Trooper from before - Andrej - cheerfully talking to his assigned squad of confused and disoriented dockworkers. They seem no closer to understanding him than I am. This brings a smile to my face. 

I find myself wondering how different we truly are, if such a strange man can bring to us the same responses. I am beyond the understanding of these men and women of Armageddon, and they are beyond mine, but somehow, Andrej's strangeness unites us. Of course, the troopers lack my augmented senses. They lack my squad's vox-channel. They lack the decades of training that has gone into my forging. I swing my rifle to the side, but it's already too late - Brother Ivar, the youngest and most stoic of my squad, is down on his knees, the Phase Knife of the Callidus behind him carving a blood path through his neck. His icon is turning grey on my display even as I draw a bead on her, both hearts already ruined by her weapon even before she tried to take his head, but Ivar himself beats me to the kill. His bolt pistol, awkwardly turned back between one arm and his chest plate, discharges a series of bolts into his killer. Stomach, chest, head, the series of explosive rounds detonating her in a shower of gore. 

She falls backwards from the perch, ruined remains landing in an open vat of caustic chemicals made to melt plasteel on contact. Her flesh is already dissolving even before Brother Ivar's body strikes the ground, Apothecary Nilum easily reaching his side to salvage his gene-seed. Apothecary Nilum, Brother Besk, and Librarian Artorias are the only ones left under my command, and their company is little comfort. Artorias addresses me on the Squad channel, and I already know, somehow, what he's going to say.

"Brother-Sergeant, I bear dire news. A Callidus Assassin was spotted, attempting to infiltrate the line. I stopped it, but there are sure to be more."

'It'. He stopped 'It'. I suppose that's the proper way to view the matter. These are no longer humans, but living weapons, and they seek the blood of Astartes. I measure my words carefully, putting bolt rounds into the green horde, even as the roar of drop pods fills the sky. More Astartes - Salamanders, by the look of their craft, dozens dropping in to aid their beleaguered kin - and more complications. I decide to be terse, though not unkind. My men do not need to be admonished for their vigilance.

"There is one more, brother. And I am certain that sh- that it knows we are aware of it. The target is Imbari, of the Lions, and there were five when we landed. Librarian Koros foresaw this, and this is our purpose here."

They acknowledge this with clicks on the vox, the sound of our guns joined by that of the Salamanders joining us. The Templars stride from knot to knot among the Orks, seeking the heaviest combat in which to baptize themselves in fungal, alien blood. The Salamanders and Lions - what few remain - are stationed at the weakest points of the human defensive line, preventing breakthroughs and selling their lives dearly to save those of the humans beside them. I would drift once more into philosophical thought, but now is not the time. We have docks to save, Orks to kill, humans to defend.....and one final assassin to put down.

Days survived: 36/?

Kill count for Primus Marksman: 4125/2935

Imbari's hunters slain: 4/5

Widowmakers remaining: 4/10


	4. Day Fifty-Seven

It has been almost two months since the Orks arrived. It has been one month since the docks fell - or, more accurately, since the docks stopped being worth fighting for. The Ork attack there was repelled, but at 92% loss of industrial use. If this city survives, it will be a ruined husk of what it was. In these two months, I have revised my opinion on many things, and I feel that this is fitting to acknowledge. 

The Black Templars are not the heroes I thought them to be. They have pursued their Crusade to the exclusion of all else, and in their zealous pursuit of the Ork invaders, they have time and again abandoned the humans that needed their protection. Librarian Artorias died under the weight of dozens of Orkish axes, lightning pouring from his fingertips to slay hundreds of their foul kind before they could reach him, all while defending a storm shelter packed with humans. He stood this vigil because the Templars felt no need to aid him. They found another fight to pursue, and abandoned that which they had so tenuously claimed. Three Celestial Lions fell beside Artorias, and when the green butchers broke through their defensive line, the bunker was easily cracked open, and the three thousand humans sheltering within butchered before reinforcements could arrive. Grimaldus is guilty of this as well - but for his faults, I hope he survived the mess at the Temple of the Emperor Ascendant, from which his last transmissions originated.

The Celestial Lions, meanwhile, are almost certainly doomed, unless commanders and warriors can be preserved through this war. I have seen firsthand, time and again, the hand of the enemy tearing them down. Intelligence is consistently false or insufficient, and enemies appear in greater numbers than should be possible, particularly in areas previously cleared. However, I have determined the source of their misfortune. It started on the Ecclesiarchy world of Khattar.

The priests of Khattar had fallen to heresy, and the Lions were called upon to cleanse the world of its taint. They waged a brutal campaign, cleansing the blasphemous priests by bolter and blade, until no armies remained. Inquisitor Apollyon, who had asked for their aid, thanked the Lions for their assistance - and as they made to leave the system, Apollyon put the entire world to flame. Exterminatus. The honor of the Lions burned with that world, and they sent a delegation to Terra to decry this insult. The delegation never arrived, and the Inquisition began its war upon the Lions, leading all the way to this disgraceful, shameful behavior on Armageddon.

The Cult Mechanicus is also a force to be concerned about. They care little for the Imperium, seeking to preserve their own power, to serve their own greed. Our Techmarine brothers are, for the most part, above such corruption, and occasionally, a member of the Mechanicus can be found that is worthy of friendship, but they are few and far between. To this end, I recommend the Crone of Invigilata, whose Titan Stormherald walked in defense of the Imperium's people, for a posthumous Silver Skull of the Widowmakers Chapter. 

I send my brothers to the staging area - Besk, to make peace with his new augmetic arm during the journey, and Nilum, to see to the safe transport of our gene-seed back to the fleet. But my work here is not yet done, even as the ramp closes shut behind Imbari. According to the Librarian, my task is completed, and Imbari was safely delivered the instant his foot touched the ramp, but I seat myself in the ruined husk of a building. I have two tasks remaining.

First, I transmit this information, all my data accumulated on this world, to the loyal Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes - Cousins all, regardless of our differences. Sons of Corax, Dorn, Sanguinius, Johnson, Khan, Manus, Guilliman, Russ, and Vulkan. You should know of this insidious threat the Inquisition poses. They would destroy any Chapter that seeks their censure, and would weaken the Imperium to keep their secrets. This is unacceptable. I am Brother-Sergeant Barsoom, First Company of the Widowmakers, Third Squad, and I tell you this: The Inquisition does not have any authority over us, save that which we allow them. Such betrayal cannot be allowed to stand.

As for my second task, I see her - it - now, at the door. There is no pretense of stealth, or honor. Not anymore. Its target is beyond its reach now, and I am the only enemy it has left on this world. I should be going now, brothers - I would hate to be a poor host to this particular houseguest. Do with my record as you will - agree or disagree, uphold or censure, it no longer matters. Should I live, I will continue my service. If not, I will die on this world, as I predicted. My record has been transmitted, my name carved upon the blessed stone of Terra itself, on the Marksman's Wall, the sigil of the Widowmaker forever to stand in glory. Perhaps I can design a new award for five million kills? Thoughts for the future, I suppose. 

MEMORANDUM: ONLY IN DEATH DOES DUTY END.

*Log::End::TransmitCode4050-9211-0705-00000-282-973-W*

Days survived: 57/57

Kill count for Primus Marksman: 7922/2935

Imbari's hunters slain: 5/5

Widowmakers remaining: ?/10


End file.
